Chapter Text
“Maybe it’s an American thing,” Eunseok suggests.
“Being a pervert often is.”
“Bin-ah!”
Sohee is here against his will. In fact, he borderline sprinted out of the dorm when he saw them sitting around the kitchen table like the council of doom, and the instinct would have been correct. He doesn’t know how many more agreeable hmms he has in him, has checked his watch five times.
“He might not know,” Sungchan, ever helpful, offers.
The circles of argument are starting to annoy him. He’s stuck in an endless loop of Netflix recaps. Previously on… RIIZE is Blind to how little Sohee cares about this interpersonal, ‘who took my toothbrush’ type of conflict. They’re all adults, and they used to live in dorms of ten where toothbrushes suffered much worse. They can figure this out.
“How about you just talk to him?” he snaps, drumming his fingers on the table.
A chorus of immediate and unanimous agreement:
“What a great idea!” Shotaro.
“Yes, let’s do that.” Eunseok nods.
“I love it!” Sungchan.
Sohee feels like he has been led into a trap, blindfolded and bleating, and now his stupid, lamb head is stuck in the meat chopper.
The guys are terrible actors.
“I think,” Shotaro pretends to.
Sungchan turns towards him, “What do you think, hyung?” turns towards the table, “Because we all respect your ideas.”
Shotaro smiles briefly at his antics, before focusing his undivided attention on Sohee. He has to squint to bear it, the sunny eyes and wholesome smile. Disappointing Shotaro is not for the weak. “Just off the top of my head...”
“Uh-huh,” Sohee says, unimpressed.
His neck might break with how violently he’s pulling it out the butcher’s hole. He can see the knife sharpening in the background, smell the blood in the air, imagine the guy ordering him at the overpriced French restaurant, side of mash.
“As the youngest—”
“No.” He starts shaking his head before the sentence is finished. Absolutely not will he be saddled with this train-wreck of an intervention. He doesn’t even know the guy! Plus, he can’t be giving the ideas and doing them. This is a job for someone with much more patience, not to mention, tact. Sohee’s not known for either. Their relationship is one of cartoonish violence. You don’t see the Road Runner and the Coyote attending sex addicts anonymous.
“As his age-mate,” Shotaro continues, undeterred, “it might be better for you to do it.”
“I disagree,” he tries for civil.
But Sungchan jumps in, “Because he’d be less embarrassed if it was you.”
“And you get it.” They’re tag-teaming him against the ropes with everyone else watching, handing them the chair. “You’ve been young and—and virile.”
“Eugh. Yeah, having Shotaro-hyung do it is like getting the sex talk from your dad.” Wonbin rolls his eyes, glancing at Shotaro. “No offence.”
“I am offended,” Shotaro says.
Normally, this would be a fantastic place for Sohee to derail the conversation; he’s good at adding kindling to the fire, but Eunseok seems to sense he’s about to do so and enters the ring to announce his KO, “So we, as a team, agree that Sohee is going to talk to him.”
Sohee’s still shaking his head, never stopped. “Never did, and I’m not doing it.”
What he is doing is leaving this ambush. The chair screeches dramatically, sliding back. Suddenly, Shotaro lunges over the table to grab his wrist. “You should. Hyung needs you.”
Sohee opens his mouth to say no, gross, excuse-me?, closes it, soundless. He does love to be needed. But, “I’m not the one complaining. I don’t even know what we’re talking about—”
“Take your headphones off one night. You will,” Wonbin sighs.
The rest nod solemnly, and, for the jury to note, Sohee’s still against this, but the guys seem so haunted curiosity gets the best of him. No one wants to be outside of an inside joke, especially if that joke is Anton. Sohee’s the CEO of Anton joking.
He has barely agreed when relief slumps the group against their chairs harder than a dance practice.
“I will consider it,” he says over the thank-you-s. “I’ll see if it’s worth doing.” Yeah-s and sure-s. “But you will owe me. Big time.”
The matter at hand, laid before him for analysis, pending resolution: as quiet as Anton is generally existing, there seems to be an outlet for his… frustrations.
Sohee is none the wiser because Sohee makes it a point to not listen to his surroundings unless required to do so, lens to face, the Lee Haechan school of sprinting out the room as soon as choreographically possible. He loves his bandmates, they’re cool people, but as an idol, you have to take quiet when you can get it. The white noise of his own playlists helps him remember himself—having one of those to begin with—over the loops of Ember to Solar, of fancalls, that soundtrack every second of his life.
His first night in pin-drop silence sets up act one of a horror film. At first, he thinks they’re exaggerating. Relief floods him, laying bored in bed. He’s off the hook. Since that group sentencing, the anticipation of an awkward conversation had been eating at him all day. But the lamb may yet live to see another meadow.
Then it starts, soft rustling, a crack of the bed-frame, the slamming shut of the window. Anton plods, socked feet, around the room. Lights click off. Drawer slides open. He drops back on the bed with a sigh.
In his meditative state, Sohee’s practically in the room with him, tied against his will to the designated cuck chair. He has achieved a hearing sensitivity that would make the CIA’s experiments on remote viewing plausible.
They share a wall, the rooms are tiny, the beds shoved against it on either side. Anton’s alarm blares every ten minutes, all morning. He takes long showers, watches Single’s Inferno to fall asleep, giggles when they get together. But beyond that and the occasional guitar practice, their cohabitating proximity is not something that factors in Sohee’s mind.
It’s factoring.
Immediately, he understands the problem. Whatever Anton’s watching, he’s watching it on headphones, so he must think he’s being quiet. Sohee can’t hear the cause, but the effect echoes loud and clear—a swallowed moan that has Sohee shooting up in his bed. He covers his ears just as Anton makes another noise, this one soft and breathy and sounding damningly like a whispered, “Yeah.”
So he’s loud in bed. This is something Sohee can process. In the folder of embarrassing Anton facts he keeps stashed in his brain, it wouldn’t be an outlier.
And, oh. A begger, too, “Yes, please, please, fuck.”
But Sohee could have told you that. Anton begs for everything, more praise, less punishment. The picture of him, puppy-eyed, hands clasped, combined with the audio—continuous now, ohh-s and ahh-s and slicked skin on skin—does not bode well for Sohee’s objectivity.
He’s objectively half-chubbed, head spiralling. Lays down slowly, arms by his side, hands in stubborn knots like they might betray him. Squeezes his eyes shut and inhales, through the nose, out the mouth. Thinks things that would depress him: dogs in shelter cages, like, really old ones, their owner died or something and no one wants them they’re so old.
On the other side of the wall, Anton’s fucking his fist hard, and he’s wet enough to squelch. Exciting new horrors assault Sohee’s thoughts. How it’s kind of girly of him to leak this much. Sohee would, should, pin his arms to the bed and watch the precum drip helplessly down his cock. Then, stretch him open on his own gooey mess—.
Even the shelter dog is weirded out.
Anton’s breath catches, forcing Sohee’s attention to the very present shlick of his fist. He’s breathing heavy. Sohee can hear the strain in his voice the exact moment he does something different with his grip, a wrist twist maybe, a slight squeeze, a lick of a finger on the head.
What comes out of him, a deep growl that loops in Sohee’s brain destructively, bull in a ‘professional-relationships’ china shop.
What follows, total silence.
Sohee’s heartbeat bangs in his ears. It’s all he hears; it’s so damn quiet. His mouth is paper-dry, but he’s not about to swallow. He debates the ethics of shutting his eyes and pretending to sleep and practices the speech he’ll give (“Hey, so, the homies want you to give your cock a break, but I’m suddenly not one of them, so please proceed—”) when Anton barges into his room and calls him on his bluff.
The bed frame knocks against the wall, startling him. Anton whines. Back to back, rhythmic. He’s fucking himself against the mattress. A pillow, Sohee’s mind supplies helpfully, visually, his fist, a toy? Would he be the type? Would he have the balls to have a sex toy ordered to the dorms, knowing Sohee could easily find it?
Sohee needs to touch himself if he’s going to remember to think about this rationally. His stomach hurts. His lungs burn. He can’t even—breathe this pent-up. Arousal churns, hot and heavy, in his gut. His cock has stuck to his layers, chaffing uncomfortably.
Speaking of ethics, where is Kant on the topic of turning your friend slash colleague, who you do not know that well, is conventionally attractive and also moaning into your ear about how good he feels, into your own personal porn? Feels like Hume would give him a pass.
Anton’s getting sloppy with his humping, hiccuping a consistent string of, “Yes, oh, yes, more, please, please,” as his pace falters.
Sohee shoves a hand under his boxers though he prefers it Anton’s way, on his front, imitating the real thing. He needs to fuck again. He hates that he can’t fuck because there are rules and impracticalities built into this lifestyle. Gets why Anton’s doing this, why he needs it every night, why he sounds freaking pussy-whipped the faster his hips push.
Sohee speeds up to match his pace. It’s not difficult. He’s soaked and throbbing when he gets his fist around himself, and with every pump, he makes the slide wetter.
He thinks of Anton’s biceps bulging to hold him up, the veins in his forearms, the precise snap of his hips, the sweat running down his abs to disappear into the thick curls above his cock he refuses to shave. The cute faces he’d make coming, so easy to visualize, scrunched nose, tongue pink and wet. Rolled eyes, fucked dumb. Sohee could get him to drool on himself.
Throws an arm over his eyes and bites his lower lip shut. Anton’s making enough noise for both of them. Sohee has never as much as exhaled in response to an orgasm, but now would be a terrible time to learn something new about himself.
“Oh, oh fuck! I’m gonna come, you—you’re gonna make me come,” Anton whimpers under his breath, and Sohee’s hips lift off the bed to slam frantically into his fist, chase him to the finish.
It’s Anton, he imagines on top of him as he throws himself over the moral and existential edge—Anton riding him, his big, useless cock bouncing up and down with the movement, his big, muscled thighs shaking pathetically as he finishes untouched, his big loads dripping down the ridges of his flexing stomach, his big everything pinning Sohee to the bed with his dead-weight, fucked out and filled up.
He tastes blood when he comes to, half-brained by the intensity of that image. His ass cramps with the high leaving his body. The stickiness in his hand has dried cold and unpleasant. His shirt is dotted in evidence. A lot, by the looks of it, all the way to his collar. He can’t remember the last time he did it this rough or needed it this urgently. His fingers ache when he wipes them on his sweats.
Relief overshadows the shame, sinks him to the bed, sleepy and sated. Still, he gets it, their dilemma. He might not survive another night of that.
Next door, the shower starts, Anton’s obscure music taste bouncing off the tiles.
In practice, Anton smiles at him sweetly. Sohee forgets people have normal reasons to do that and gives him what can only be described as the most menacing glare possible, the kind you give to a stranger in the subway who’s a little too interested in what you’re reading, thinks he might scoot over and start a conversation.
At night, the routine becomes Pavlovian. The window slams shut, and Sohee’s half-hard against his leg. The drawer opens, and his cock is in his hand. He won’t be made to feel bad when Anton’s loud enough to garner a reputation.
Sohee reasons he needs it out of his system, this new, fucked-up fantasy of his that forgets who Anton is—big, shy, clumsy, categorically straight—and mistakes him for someone who’d suck dick, if he is to do this right, have the talk. Calmly like adults. They all do it. Totally normal. Just shut up so they don’t have to sync their estrual cycles.
Barge into Anton’s room and catch him going at it. Barge into his room and smack the cock off his hand. Barge into his room and call him names, names that would get him in real trouble with the perceptions of him as a delicate, angel boy. He gives a lot of thought to barging into his room.
It’s humiliating to have to do this, come, nightly, to Anton’s thready voice, the way his hips stutter when he’s done and how he always makes himself hurt, a few more thrusts that have him whimpering.
Stands to reason, Anton deserves a fraction of the embarrassment in return. Lately, the thought of that more than anything, has Sohee spilling in his hand.
“What kind of porn do you watch?” Sohee asks him after he’s lost three rounds of Overwatch, and Eunseok’s left them to play with people that suck less.
Anton blushes, caught off guard. His eyes are wide. His face boozy pink. They’ve drank enough to excuse having this kind of ‘guy talk’ though the living room would not be Sohee’s first choice of location, but he’s loose, and he’s annoyed, and Shotaro’s who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what, probably the exact same thing Sohee wants to be doing. He’s ex-NCT—he knows how to get his dick wet.
“What, you don’t watch porn?”
“No, just, like, how did this come up?”
Sohee shrugs. “Been thinking about it.”
“Watching porn?”
He shrugs again. He has been thinking about it. Not actively, he’s no pervert, but on occasion, when he catches himself looking at Anton fussing with his water bottle, spilling all over his chin, sticking all over with sweat. It feels illegal to screenshot that for future use and end up using it, hand on his cock, Anton moaning on the other side of the wall.
Porn will heal him, remind him of what he actually wants: big boobs, good blowjobs, time to get off, in someone’s mouth, preferably. It’s not about men, whom he’s come to terms with enjoying, infrequently, no strings attached, an arrangement they’re better at accepting. But this man in particular, this lost, stray puppy that has come limping to his door. Sohee’s not sure what to do with him.
“You’re horny?” Anton guesses. There’s a curious sparkle in his eyes, and he leans forward, interested, like he’s being granted a sneak-peak to parts of Sohee he’d heard existed but never though he’d have access to.
They’re not close in the way the fans assume. Brought together by default, through unaddressed misery best left packed. Sohee’s used to being gravitated towards. Anton does it readily, drifts into his space, handsy, but it’s different when it’s the two of them without an audience, and the couch is small, their thighs brushing. Sohee doesn’t have to stop him and save him from his own overeagerness. No cat-and-mouse games, no producers to turn their dynamic marketable.
He wonders if Anton needs to talk about it, if he’s done being treated like a baby when they both know he’s familiar with being lusted after, preens under that kind of attention. He wonders what he’d do if it was Sohee giving it to him, and he wonders if it’s smart getting in over his head again with someone equally drawn to him, who’ll do anything to make him happy. He should have learned his lesson. Seunghan had been soft, too.
“You’re not? We do nothing but work.” And Sohee loves his job! He really, really does. He just didn’t imagine a life this sex-less for him in his future. The truth of it is, he’d have thrived in university. Like many mental traps, it’s not worth tip-toeing over. He chugs the rest of the beer.
Anton shrugs, looking at the can in his hands. “I take care of it.”
“No porn then?”
“Yes porn.”
“So?” he prods, a kid with a big bug, finding it’s not so scary under thumb with its wings fanned back.
Anton crinkles the beer between his long fingers. “I don’t know,” he chuckles airily, “like, probably, the usual stuff, I’m not, like, super picky.”
“Tits?”
“Kind of.”
“Anal?”
Anton squirms. “Edging,” he wets his lips to say.
You’re not good at it, Sohee wants to point out, but he’s not that drunk yet. He reaches for a new can, cracks it open, gulps down warm beer for the beats it takes Anton to regret his words, get fidgety and awkward at the silence.
In hindsight, a lot of his pitiful whining is put into context with that admission, all that begging and blubbering, why he always sounds so disappointed to have come so quick. He needs a firmer hand. No pun intended.
“What - what about you?” Anton mumbles, embarrassed.
You, unfortunately—but nope, not drunk enough! But he is, apparently, lax and loose-lipped for this nugget of truth, “I like people who are loud.”
Anton chokes on his next sip, plays it off as a cough, licking the droplets running down his chin. If Sohee’s eyes track it, he’ll blame it on the drunk he’s not.
Anton’s staring at him hard. There’s beer on his hoodie. His mouth is sticky wet. He bites his lips compulsively. “Is that, like, a category?” he asks, voice light, in complete contrast to his gaze.
This is the kind of look Sohee gets from people wanting him between their legs, too shy to ask. Anton, tall enough to dwarf him, strong enough to snap him in half, wears it dangerously well. He sits nicely, perfectly submissive. Shoulders squared back, hands politely on his lap. Sohee knows if he kneels before him right now, Anton will part his thighs, no questions asked, let Sohee drag his sweatpants down his legs and drool all over his designer boxers. And he’ll make all those wet, whiny noises getting his hole licked that Sohee has heard muffled by the wall. Easy to please.
Sohee feels like pushing him. “You get loud edging yourself, Toni?”
“Hyung!”
He deserves the kick that follows. Anton rabbits his socked feet against his body childishly, rolling on his back, hands on his face.
Sohee laughs to break the tension. “You’re so red—!” He has never seen him this flustered; Anton looks ready to combust, his cheeks glow under the low-lights. He looks ready to cry with shame. It’s intriguing, as a concept.
“I hate you!” He keeps hitting him. “I hate that I told you that. I hate you so much. I want to kill myself.”
Sohee thinks the lingering discomfort of that conversation will have Anton reconsidering. Debating, at the very least, if he’s being loud, if Sohee, who lives next door, who confessed to liking them so, might hear that he’s someone of the type—his type. Sohee hadn’t been lying even if it was said to fish for a reaction.
It’d be easier to assume Anton is naive to his own magnetism, that this tension between them has no undercurrents, no foreshadowing. There’s no silent conversation had in the way Anton forces eye-contact, catching Sohee staring at him while he lifts his shirt up to wipe sweat off his face and lifting it higher, flexing.
But to believe he wants Sohee to hear him get off feels akin to believing the mechanic is there to fuck you inside the washing machine. Sohee doesn’t make a habit of thinking of everyone around him as a fetishistic freak even if idols have a bit of a streak, wanting it weird and convoluted. Being sexualized does that to a person; the normal stuff feels overexposed.
So, what’s the truth? Something slippery, full of first crush uncertainties, the last thing Sohee wants to be involved with.
Nevertheless, it’s best to act before he loses interest in being practical about it.
Anton has his eyes closed when Sohee swings the door open. One hand holding his phone, the other on his cock, teasing himself by the looks of it, dragging the pads of his fingers up his shaft. The only light in the room, his bedside lamp, casts stark shadows over his body, every muscle standing out in contrast like some accidentally-horny, religious painting.
Sohee’s readying to turn the lights on, alert him, when Anton’s eyes crack open, and he yelps, loudly, yanking his stupid, wired headphones off his ears in one frazzled, uncoordinated movement that has his phone clattering against the floorboards.
“Hyung!” He fumbles with the blanket, dragging it over his lap. It tents with his erection.
“I knocked,” Sohee lets him know, averting his eyes. “Do you know how loud you are when you get off?”
It seems, Anton doesn’t. Made clear by the mortified expression melting over his face, one feature at a time, the fear in his widening eyes, twitching left and right like he’s replaying the past ten minutes in his head, his mouth gaping open, closed, open, speechless.
The door handle digs into Sohee’s hand with how hard he’s gripping it, the last buoy in a sea of bad decisions, shark waters, pulling currents. “Look,” he steadies himself; he’s a big boy. “It’s fine. Just keep it down.”
It’s so simple, in hindsight. The last week feels like a fever dream. All it took was one sentence. He should have done it on Saturday, when the guys warned him, when he knew, immediately, not doing it would be a problem. He should have walked over here and told him, and everything would be an embarrassing story they share, they may even bring up, red and laughing, in a radio show ten years in the future when their contract is up, and they’ve grown up and apart.
“Hyung?” Anton calls after him. Sohee stops without turning back, waits for the other shoe to drop. It does so quietly, a barely audible, “Stay.”
Now, the big boy decision. He has heard the siren’s call, complete with that soft, melodic way Anton asks and gets everything—he’s asking for him.
Sohee should remember the currents, clutch the buoy to his chest and pretend he didn’t hear it. He should do, now, what he’ll say he should have done tomorrow: leave, go back to his room, touch himself to the idea of Anton wanting him, thinking of him as he no doubt does the same on the other side of the wall, and go to sleep early, wake up to film. This comeback will be a good one, get them back on track.
Then, ten years in the future, Anton will sit in front of him, looking confident, sexy, and Sohee will want to rip his clothes off, and he’ll have earned it—the backstage, rushed handjobs whilst dating women—having waited, acted right, put RIIZE first. He has done it before, has no regrets, even if it haunts him, shouldering past him like he’s nothing in the claustrophobic hallways of SM Entertainment.
The memory tastes sour, burns a hole in his mood. He’s not looking for a chaser. Really, he has convinced himself, but he makes the mistake of looking.
Anton waits for him, hands gripping the blanket, eyes hopeful. Sohee could, should, hurt him. A rejection here will mean nothing in ten years. In the great scope of things, Anton will have a thousand more yes-s than this one random no.
He picks up the phone off the floor on the way to Anton’s bed. A faceless man, naked and writhing, is getting his cock milked by an equally faceless, body-less hand. He wasn’t lying.
“Why do you like this?” Sohee asks, handing it to him and watching Anton turn it off, drop it somewhere on the blankets, not breaking eye contact. He looks up at Sohee, amazed, and if Sohee hadn’t been sure how he got here, he’s certain of one thing, Anton wants this yes over the thousand other ones, so Sohee’s going to give it to him.
“I come too fast,” Anton admits, cheeks reddening. “It feels better when I can hold it.”
Sohee sits on the bed in front of him, motions towards Anton’s covered lap. “It’s wasted on you.”
“What, like, my dick?”
“Your big dick.”
The praise makes Anton blush and hide his eyes under his long bangs. He smiles to himself.
“Ever had someone do this to you?” Sohee asks.
“Yeah.”
“Boy?”
“Yeah,” Anton says, adds hurriedly, “Not since… after the group, I haven’t.”
After debut, he means, so another trainee, when, dorms, a dancer?
“Anyone I know?”
Anton purses his lips, considering him. “Would it piss you off?”
“Kinda,” Sohee laughs, called out. The thought irks him. He hasn’t figured out why.
“Would it make you touch me?” Anton chances, flashing him that bedroom gaze he has perfected for stage, long lashes over dark, hooded eyes, greedy. They do wonders to smooth out the awkwardness in his speech. “Feels like… hyung would be better at it…” His volume drops with his confidence, the end nothing but a fluttery whisper.
“I’d be mean,” Sohee clarifies.
Anton rolls his eyes. “And that’s new?”
“I’d make you work for it.” He’s getting excited.
Anton makes a noise like a nervous giggle. “I like the sound of that.”
Settled. Sohee inches closer, reaching for his face. Pushes a strand of hair behind Anton’s ear, caresses his fingers down his cheek, watching Anton’s Adam’s apple bob in anticipation, slides his palm down his jaw to cup under his chin. “Spit.”
“Huh?” Anton sounds dazed. His eyes, in the process of slipping shut, blink open.
“Spit in my hand.”
The words take a second to register. Anton’s pupils dilate with realization. He recalibrates fast. No more shy wetting of lips, he puffs his cheeks out, swishing saliva in his mouth. Stares directly in Sohee’s eyes as he purses his lips to push it into his hand, warm and slippery. Sohee drags his thumb across to snap the leftovers.
He says, “Don’t let me hurt you.”
“You can,” Anton blurts, cringes at himself, seeing the disbelief in Sohee’s face. “Like, a little,” amends, blushing to the tips of his ears.
Sohee lifts the blanket off him. Anton has tensed for the reveal. His abs are flexed, his belly sucked in, his thighs tight with tension, dusted in light hair. The vein in his lower stomach leads the eye downward, where his cock—cut—thick and long, drips precum on his happy trail. There’s a confidence in his messy bush that reflects how secure Anton feels about this part of himself, and it’s irritating that he’s right, that he has one of the best cocks Sohee’s ever seen, perfectly pink, pornstar-ready. It looks lewd on such a stuttery, submissive wreck.
“Ready?” Sohee asks to stretch time, though Anton’s squirming for it, holding his breath. He nods, twice, for good measure.
Sohee feigns annoyance. “Poor manners.”
“Please,” Anton rushes to correct. At Sohee’s raised eyebrow, “H—hyung, Sohee-hyung, please.”
Every time he speaks, his body relaxes, and he has to remember to brace for it all over again. He’s going to bite his pretty lip bloody if he chews on it any harder. They have a shoot tomorrow. It won’t do, even if it has Sohee’s cock thickening at the thought of Anton’s post-fuck bruises being immortalized forever, and no one would know but him.
He wraps his hand around the head, uses the first pump to spread the saliva down his length, firm enough for Anton to feel the pressure of his grip, what Sohee could give him if he was interested in his pleasure, thumb brushing the vein on the side, pressing under his head, circling the fresh beads glistening on his tip.
Anton muffles a gasp. It’s clear he is forcing himself still by the way his body quivers in effort. The second stroke gets a puffed exhale. The third breaks his composure, and he thrusts up, once, despite himself, cock sliding wetly in Sohee’s hand.
“I liked it better when you begged,” Sohee tells him.
Anton winces one of his eyes shut in shame. “You heard—?”
“Everything.”
His face reddens, but his cock throbs. He wrestles with the humiliation as Sohee moves his fist higher, focusing on the velvety skin of his tip, curling his fingers to caress before digging his thumb in his cock-hole suddenly.
Anton jolts in pain, eyes falling shut.
“I can... I can moan if you want?” he struggles not to, between words.
He wants to be told he can, but that’s not Sohee’s style of leading. You have to choke on the leash a few times to know what happens when you pull.
“You know how I feel about it,” he keeps his tone bored.
“Right,” Anton flusters, remembering. “Right, okay,” talks himself up for it, “It’s…” he gulps, “really good.”
Sohee rewards the attempt with a nice, deep stroke. All the way to his fat balls and up, twisting at the tip. “Yeah,” Anton earns another, faster—and another, other, other (“Oh! Yes. Please, keep going.”). He’s getting the hang of it, now. With every pump, voice climbing higher in volume and pitch, sounding so, so good, “mhm, yeah.”
It’s a little too mesmerizing, giving Sohee a little too much time to observe—every involuntary gasp, every sated smile. He doesn’t like domming often for this reason, even if it comes naturally; his indifference helps. It requires a type of compartmentalization that leaves him pent up, violently needy.
He reverses his grip, rotating his hand upside down and focusing solely on the head of Anton’s cock, thumb and pointer tight under the glans. Short, shallow strokes on his most sensitive part.
Anton starts shaking almost immediately, legs twitching in overstimulation.
“Too much!” He whimpers, “Hyung—close!”
Sohee lifts off, giving him a break.
“You’re good at this,” Anton compliments in between shallow breaths.
“I’m good at a lot of things.”
Anton laughs. “Fuckboy.”
Sohee isn’t sure what that means in English, but it doesn’t necessarily sound like a bad thing. “Sure,” he grins.
“Hate you,” Anton mumbles, struggling to keep the affection off his voice. He’s so easy to read, easy, easy, easy. It should piss Sohee off that he’s indulging. Easy’s not his type. Easy gets you in trouble.
This time, when he wraps his hand around Anton’s cock, he uses his other to outline Anton’s nipple with his thumb, watch it pebble at the attention. His chest is flushed, streaks of red run across it where he has scratched himself, playing. Sensitive. Sohee flicks, and Anton’s hips jerk. His thighs part open, his head falls back, biceps straining to hold him up. He works his hips in Sohee’s loose fist as Sohee pinches the small bud in between his fingers, alternating soft with painful.
“Want your mouth on me,” Anton confesses, staring at it in hunger.
Sohee lowers it near his cock, and Anton’s hips fuck up predictably. That’s all he has to do to have him squirming. Be in his line of sight, blink big, innocent doll eyes he knows have people eating out of the palm of his hand. He moves lower, closer, looks up at his cock, a little cross-eyed, gives Anton what he’s after, a stark comparison of how big he is compared to Sohee’s small hand, his small mouth—half of him would barely fit! Sohee’s oh-so-scared to try, oppa.
“No, won’t be able to.” Anton winces, cock drippy.
“No?” Sohee smirks, dropping the act and flashing him his fangs. “Offer like this won’t come twice, Toni.”
Anton bites his lip, looking torn. His cock twitches in Sohee’s hand, dribbling all over his knuckles. He lets out a pained whine, sounding so pathetic, it makes Sohee’s dick ache in his jeans. He needs to focus.
“Hyung,” Anton sulks, “gonna finish in your mouth if I do.”
Sohee tsks. “Ah, but I don’t swallow.”
A full-body shiver wracks through Anton’s frame. “Next time?” he begs, voice small. “I can do better—you’re so hot.” He stares at Sohee’s mouth, transfixed on his lips, eyes blown wide. “I can earn it.”
Sohee knows his strengths. You don’t snap selfies for a living and don’t know your selling points. He knows what Anton’s imagining when his cock throbs at the sight of Sohee wetting his lips, why his breath hitches when Sohee grabs his hand and pulls it towards his mouth, wraps his lips around Anton’s middle and ring fingers, sucking on them teasingly. He coats them in saliva and places them, dripping wet, back on Anton’s cock.
“Prove it.”
Anton swallows audibly. He doesn’t break eye-contact with the drool Sohee can feel still clinging to his chin as he works himself, rough and practiced, follows Sohee’s face excitedly as he leans forward, lines himself with Anton’s dick.
It’s enticing. Pretty cock, huge, heavy. His mouth waters at the challenge. He opens it, tongue peaking, lets the drool pool out, thick and gooey, drip directly into Anton’s fist.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he hears Anton curse under his breath, speeding up to make use of the added wetness. His fist makes sloppy, gross sounds flying up his shaft. “So pretty, hyung, ah fuck, wanna—on you, your face. I’m—close.” He stops mid-way.
“Want next time?” Sohee snaps. He sits back, unimpressed.
Anton whimpers something broken. Tries and fails, keeps stopping like it burns him. He’s panting himself winded.
“All the way.” Sohee forces his shaking hand up towards the tip.
“Can’t, hyung, gonna come!” Anton begs, pulling it off.
His whole body strains in effort, all eight of his abs pressing into his smooth skin. Sohee isn’t sure he can do it. There doesn’t seem to be a single part of him that isn’t showing signs of breaking, but Sohee hates quitters.
“Come on, big boy.”
Anton’s cock slaps against his stomach at the nickname. “Oh, fuck,” he groans in English.
Thinking he might actually lose him, Sohee leaps into action, wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and squeezes hard enough to hurt, thumb digging into the underside. “Breathe. It’s okay.”
Anton stares at the ceiling as he calms himself down. “Ah, ‘m so bad at this,” he laughs self-deprecatingly in that petulant tone he adopts when they’ve beaten him into submission, and he’s belly-up, begging for mercy. A part of Anton loathes it, Sohee knows, the built-in hierarchy, the constant teasing in a language that makes his tongue stumble. There’s a pettiness inside of him that can lash out and cut you if you know where to poke.
Sohee presses him, “Where’s that idol stamina?”
“I wanna be better,” Anton whines.
“I know you do. You work so hard, Anton-ah.”
The praise seems to gives Anton a sudden second wind. His toes curl in pleasure, and his thighs shake non-stop, but he makes it all the way to the tip, and, without an accident, starts sliding his hand back down stubbornly to prove a point.
Sohee’s almost proud of him. Anton watches him like a starved dog, desperate for any scraps of attention. He’s not sure what he’s showing him, but he knows it’s not enough by the way Anton’s pupils shift frantically between his eyes, searching for an answer. The question, if Sohee were to guess, am I fucking this up, or am I doing good? It’s not easy to explain he’s doing good because he’s fucking it up, because Sohee gets to break him and feel so, so messed up about it.
“Have you fucked anyone?”
“No.” Anton shakes his head, faltering. Fingers stretching open before wrapping around his cock again. “No, but wanna fuck you so bad,” he mumbles, gripping himself tightly as he says it like Sohee did. Quick study.
Sohee laughs. “You gotta be better than this for that.”
It’s been a while since he has had anything other than his own fingers up his ass. He’s not opposed, but he’d need a lot more than those to take this. Anton’s both girthy and long, and, most tragically, doesn’t know what to do with his blessings. He’d need help, constant guidance, but with training, sure, Sohee could put him to good use.
“I can,” Anton pouts as if reading his thoughts. “I can make you feel good,” he flirts, “if—if you want,” stumbles, blushing. It wouldn’t be like him without the awkward backtracking. He’s dripping in sex appeal with a filthy mouth that gets it right and an overthinking brain that apologizes for it after. Sohee used to think it selfish of him to never want Anton to grow out of it. Now he thinks it’s something else entirely, but maybe selfish is the right word, after all.
The hard-on in his pants is becoming difficult to ignore. He’s getting fuzzy. Enough breaks. He places his hand on top of Anton’s much larger one, and encourages his fist up faster.
Anton resists, slowing down. “Close,” he whimpers, panics when Sohee doesn’t stop. Instead, squeezing both their hands around his cock. “Gonna come!”
He is, his balls pull up, his stomach sucks in sharply. He holds his breath, starts shaking—.
Sohee yanks their hands off. “Hold it.”
Anton sobs, crushes Sohee’s fingers in his fist, fighting it, hips kicking helplessly in the air. Has his eyes squeezed shut as he rides out the waves of denial, cock leaking over his stomach, untouched. Fresh strands of precum stick to the head, so hard and blood-flushed it’s purpling, but he doesn’t come.
“Oh, good boy!” Sohee praises, means it to be honest—honestly, he’s impressed—but it sounds condescending in its doubt.
Anton pants for breath, chest bobbing up and down. Goosebumps break out on every inch of his skin. His lower stomach and thighs cramp, and he squirms, struggling to settle when all his hips seem to want to do is fuck into something for relief.
There are tears in his eyes.
“Aww, Chanyoungie,” Sohee coos, seeing his clumped lashes. “Hurts?” A nod. “Want hyung to help?” Another, desperate. Head down, eyes shy. “You’ve hit your limit?” Sohee asks him.
Anton hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip. Despite how brave he’s being, he blinks, and the tears fall heavy across his pinked cheeks. Quickly, he shakes his head to hide it. “Fuck, sorry.”
“It’s okay, look at me, hey,” Sohee softens, “you’ve hit your limit?”
“Y—yeah,” Anton whispers, quiet, practically mouthed.
Sohee wraps a hand around his cock. “Let hyung help then.”
Anton doesn’t sound out the meek ‘okay’, but the sigh that leaves him, being touched, is full of gratitude. He falls back on his elbows, works in tandem with Sohee’s hand, rocking his hips up as Sohee strokes him, long pumps, proper pressure, twist around the head, spreading his wetness down and letting Anton guide the pace, learning quickly where he’s most sensitive and giving it to him without him having to ask, over and over, until Anton sounds drunk on it, moaning brokenly, head lolled back, tongue pushing against his cheek and, when he forgets himself, out his mouth, trapped tight between his teeth.
“Hyung?”
Sohee has no intention of stopping, but Anton warns, anyway, can’t help himself, sweet boy. “Gonna come.”
He speeds up, tightens his fist.
“Hyung!” Anton squeaks, rhythm stuttering. His eyes part open slightly, pin Sohee with a plea so obvious it sends his heart tripping. Permission.
Sohee’s slammed speechless with affection. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he stumbles over his words, feeling his neck grow hot at the sheer possessiveness he feels over every detail in Anton’s face when he’s safe enough to let go, the scrunched nose, the bared neck, the choked noise he makes before it all comes bubbling out in high-pitched English:
“Comingcomingcoming—oh my god!” He shoots all over his chest violently. It gets everywhere, on his hair, his chin, his damn lashes.
“More,” grits out, but Sohee knows already, milks every last drop until he’s dry, and his body collapses back on the bed in exhaustion.
Sohee pats his thigh awkwardly as he lets go. It doesn’t feel right to stop touching him when he’s so shaky, but he’s becoming keenly aware of the countdown in the back of his head, how achingly, annoyingly hard his cock is. He has never been good at lingering.
Anton reaches for him, twines their fingers, sweaty, sticky, holds Sohee’s hand coming down.
“So good… so, so good…” he sighs under his breath, lashes on his cheeks, hair fanned out on the pillow. The glow on his skin has softened to a rosy pink. The smile on his face is fond and transparent. “Hyung, you’re so good.” His cheeks dimple, eyes creasing, happy.
Sohee’s overwhelmed.
“Good,” he repeats dumbly, and his shoulders relax. He hadn’t realized until he’d heard and said it how badly he needed to. Anton drags himself up on his elbows, gives him a loopy look, and he looks so stupidly cute, so goddamn—“Silly,” Sohee smiles. “You got it all over your hair.”
He pulls the sleeve of his hoodie down and reaches to wipe him clean, unthreads the stickiness from his hair, taps the spot on his chin. Anton’s eyes go fuzzy with the action. He sits up fast to chase his touch, wobbles, disoriented. Without having to think, Sohee shifts to steady him, slides up the bed and wraps his arms around his body. Anton collapses into his chest, curling small, drawing his knees in, tucking his chin. He’s shivering uncontrollably.
“Feel weird...” he slurs, “maybe, like… throw up.”
“It’s okay,” Sohee soothes him, kicking himself, but there’s no time to run autopsies. The self-flagellation has to wait.
The drop is sudden and intense. He has seen Anton cry but not like this, sobbing silently, shoulders wracking like he can’t catch his breath, like he’s dying, and he can’t catch his breath, and he clings desperately to Sohee to save him. Sohee holds him through the worst of it.
Anton digs his hands in his hoodie, pushes his face in his chest. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t.” Sohee sighs. “You did good, Ton-ah… Chanyoungie.” Anton whimpers. “Ay, you big baby,” Sohee groans affectionately, pushing his hair back and pressing his lips to Anton’s sweaty forehead. Leaning his cheek on top of Anton’s head and breathing with him until his words come back and he has stopped feeling like a bunch of pieces Sohee’s fumbling to keep together.
His mood is decimated. Gone is any arousal, replaced by equally overpowering nausea.
The first thing Anton says makes him want to run, “Don't leave.”
“I’m right here.” He tightens his arms around him, feeling sick, sick, sick. “But you know I can’t leave you even if I wanted to. You’d know where to find me, yah? I live next door. You’d just come climbing in my bed, and make me watch stupid TikTok videos,” he talks him down, “or catch up on your dumb shows.”
Anton nods, sniffles. “Was that, like, really bad?”
“No, but I pushed you too hard, and you’re dropping, that’s why you feel like shit. It’s gonna be okay.”
“I liked it,” Anton insists, “It’s not like. You didn’t—I know what I want, I’m not a kid. I’m not…” he trails off, frustrated, “…confused.”
“I know.”
“Don’t think—”
“I know. We can talk about it.” Sohee rubs his back. “When you’re feeling better, we’ll talk, okay?”
“I’m scared you’re gonna leave.”
“And go where?” Sohee forces a laugh. “We have a comeback soon. I’m sort of the main vocalist.”
“You know what I’m talking about!” Anton snaps suddenly.
He shoves away to look at Sohee’s face, and Sohee hates himself for making him feel this way with the same breath he knows he cannot say something stupid. It wouldn’t be fair to choose to be stupid for the sake of feeling less guilty.
“Just stay, okay?” Anton mumbles, crumpling into his chest. “Not asking anything, so stop looking at me like I’m making you be my boyfriend.”
It’s a trigger word—Seunghan used it a lot—and he tenses, hearing it. Anton can probably tell, clings harder because of it, making it worse, making him feel very trapped when he knows he’s not, he knows none of this is bad, he knows Anton’s harmless, and afraid, and deserving of all the love in the world. It’s not like he doesn’t know or think about or care. He’s not an awful person even if he’s done awful things.
“Hyung?” Anton worries, pleads.
Sohee hugs him back. “I won’t leave. I’m not gonna do anything that hurts you.” A promise he can keep because it’s the most true, even if it means he can’t give Anton what he thinks he wants.